Debbi Rawlins - From This Moment On

Matt nodded, grinning. “Now they even use helicopters for roundups and drives. The job’s gotten too cushy.”

“Hey, as soon as we start seeing profits again, we need to chip in, start a co-op and buy a chopper,” Trace said. He put his mug on the corral post, then flexed his shoulders as if trying to get the stiffness out. “We’ve already got ourselves a pilot. That’s half the battle, right?”

She knew he meant his brother Jesse, but she didn’t understand the remark about profits. According to Matt the Lone Wolf was doing great. The Sundance seemed to be doing well, too. But watching Trace arch his back and stretch his arms in that snug black T-shirt, she couldn’t concentrate on anything but his broad chest and muscular biceps. She’d never thought of him as the type to work out but he had to be lifting weights or something to account for the flat belly and ridges of muscle.

Trace straightened and let his arms fall to his sides, so she could finally relax. If he’d caught her staring she didn’t know it because her gaze never made it higher than his chest.

She forced herself to look toward the barn where someone was moving out bales of hay. “What’s that equipment called?”

They both looked, but Trace answered first. “It’s just a Toolcat,” he said. “Good for small jobs and tight places.” Nikki felt a little guilty when she caught Matt’s pleased expression. He thought she was finally showing interest in the place when all she really wanted was a distraction.

“Okay, here he comes.” Matt’s tone was all business, even his posture had changed as he peered toward the stable.

Trace turned his attention to Petey. He wasn’t alone. The big grizzly looking man was leading the brown horse—the mean one from yesterday—toward them. As big as the wrangler was he seemed to be having trouble holding on to the animal when it reared up.

“He’s a beauty,” Trace murmured, slowly bending to slip between the wood railings into the corral.

Nikki tried to grab his arm and missed. “What are you doing?”

“Hey.” Matt drew her back. “You have to be quiet.”

After a brief struggle, Petey got the horse through the open gate. She watched in horror as Trace approached them from the opposite side. The horse put its head down low, arched its back and leaped into the air. Both men stepped clear as the animal came down on stiff legs.

Trace reached for the lead. “I got him,” he said in a calm voice.

“God, Matt, don’t let him do this,” she whispered, her throat tight and raw. “Please.”

“Trace knows what he’s doing. Nobody’s better with mustangs. But he doesn’t need to be distracted. Understand?”

No, she didn’t. How could she comprehend any of it? The horse’s nostrils were flared and his eyes wild…He looked as if his mission was to kill Trace. She couldn’t watch. If she’d had it in her power to make Trace leave the corral she would have.

She backed up slowly, covering her mouth because she didn’t trust herself not to scream or do something equally stupid. All eyes were on the mustang, so she turned and ran to the house.

SHE’D BEEN SCARED to death. Trace had seen it in Nikki’s flushed face and unfocused eyes, even the way her body had stiffened. What he didn’t know was whether she was afraid of horses in general or this particular mustang. Trace had to admit, the stallion could be a mean-looking son of a bitch. But only because he’d been afraid, just like Nikki.

“You’re feeling better now, aren’t you, boy?” He wiped the powerful flank, lathered with sweat, and used the back of his free arm to blot his own wet forehead.

Stupid not to wear long sleeves. He should’ve known better.

The T-shirt was sticking to his sweaty body, so he pulled it off and used a dry spot to mop his face. He had a spare in his truck that probably ought to be tossed in the rag bin but it would serve the purpose until he got home.

After three hours, the mustang was exhausted, and so was Trace. Diablo was the most fiercely stubborn horse he’d gone up against in a long time. Since the stallion had been purchased only two days earlier, he hadn’t actually been named yet. But Trace figured why not go for the obvious, the Spanish word for devil.

Matt walked out of the barn with a young hand and more bottles of water. Trace had lost track of how many he’d gulped down just in the past hour alone. A drop of sweat trickled into his eye. He squeezed it closed and used the T-shirt to stop the sting. When he could open his eye again he looked toward the house and saw Nikki standing at her window.

She moved back, and he pretended he hadn’t seen her. He wondered if Matt knew about her fear of horses. Trace didn’t think so. If he did, it wouldn’t be like Matt to let his sister come anywhere near an untamed mustang. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t been in danger. Seeing the stallion’s wild-eyed look wouldn’t win her over.

And her living on a ranch of all places? Man, no wonder she hightailed it off the Lone Wolf every chance she got. Matt had mentioned he thought her skittishness was about Wallace. Since she obviously hadn’t spoken up about her phobia, Trace wouldn’t say a word, either. Not to Matt, anyway. But he fully intended on having a talk with Nikki. She’d never give the Lone Wolf a shot if she didn’t figure out that a horse was harmless if you treated it right. And Matt really wanted his sister to stay.

Truthfully, Trace wouldn’t mind, either. Hell, if he really wanted to be honest, he’d outright admit he wanted her to stick around. Admit it to himself, anyway. No one else needed to know he was getting a little soft.

Diablo sure knew. Reading Trace’s sudden energy shift like a book, the stallion tossed his head and stamped the ground. Rotten timing. Matt and the hand had just reached them, and the poor kid looked as if he might pee his jeans.

“He’s okay,” Trace said, stroking the mustang’s neck. “It was me. I got him a little jumpy. I’ll take him back to the stable and give him a good brushing. All will be forgiven.”

“No, you won’t,” Matt said. “You’ve worked hard enough. Lester is gonna take him.” Matt passed Trace a water. “I got beer inside if you want.”

Holding on to the lead, Trace eyed the young man. “You’re Morgan’s boy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir. I’m the oldest.”

“I thought you were still in high school.”

“Graduated last month.”

“Sorry,” Matt said. “I figured you guys knew each other. Things have changed in the ten years since I moved away.”

“Not so much.” Trace held out the lead, which Lester seemed reluctant to take. “I doubt he’ll give you trouble. Just stay calm, keep your voice low.” Trace let go once he saw the boy had him. To Matt, he said, “By the way, I think this one needs to be called Diablo.”

Lester groaned. “Great.”

Matt and Trace both laughed.

Trace clapped the kid on the shoulder as he turned slowly toward the stable. “Son, I wouldn’t let you take him if I thought he’d be too rowdy for you.” He watched Lester and Diablo move toward the stable, then caught Matt staring at him. “What?”

“Son?” Matt chuckled. “He’s what…seventeen? You’ve got only ten years on that kid.”

“You have been away too long. Hell, I call Jesse son and he’s five years older than me.” Trace downed more water but kept his gaze on the boy and the mustang. He wasn’t necessarily worried, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. If he had to make a dash, he was ready. “You remember Lester’s father, right?”

“You said Morgan?” Matt frowned, shaking his head. “To tell you the truth, I’ve been so busy with Wallace and straightening out payroll, I don’t even know all the men who live in the bunkhouse, much less the day hands. Duke is still the foreman. He’s been running things.”